


Thy Heart Shall Have

by DangerDuchess



Series: No Man Would Dare [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Faustian Bargain, Literature, M/M, Old Married Couple, Professor Jaskier | Dandelion, Side Story, This is what Christopher Marlowe would've wanted, Unethical Magic, gay demons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/pseuds/DangerDuchess
Summary: Geralt comes to visit Dandelion at the Oxenfurt Academy and becomes acquainted with some of the other faculty there, namely one charming Master Doctor Fausten. Strange occurrences begin to compile around the man and something dark is nagging at the Witcher. By the time its origin is revealed, is it too late to stop it?orA Witcher Twist on a Classic, Demonic Tale(Previous Fic Not Needed To Understand)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, John Faustus/Mephistopheles
Series: No Man Would Dare [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698592
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	Thy Heart Shall Have

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am a glutton for Classical Literature involving men who play God, I have found myself here, writing this for you. It is a part of a series, but it's more of a side story than a proper sequel to the first. 
> 
> THIS STORY CAN BE ENJOYED ALL ON ITS OWN!! THERE IS NO ADDITIONAL CONTEXT REQUIRED!!!
> 
> That being said, the sequel to Life Everlasting is coming! It's about halfway complete and is turning out to be a MUCH larger project than its predecessor. It may be another few weeks before I begin posting it. I like to finish writing the ENTIRE fic before I send out any of it, just in case I want to make some last minute edits to the beginning. It is coming, I swear! 
> 
> And, for those interested in knowing, it will be told from Adam's perspective. But it will be another adaptation. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and enjoy!!

Geralt had met Jocham Fausten many times before he’d ever fully realized just how doomed the poor man was. The first time was a casual introduction as he walked the halls of Oxenfurt Academy with Dandelion. As usual, the Bard was going on about everything and everyone, interrupting himself to call out to students, seeming to have a finger in everyone’s business. The Witcher couldn’t help but smile. Dandelion was quite at home in this place.

“Ah! And here’s one of my contemporaries,” the bard grinned as they turned a corner to find a well decorated man laughing with a group of older students. He looked up as the two men approached. He was a handsome gentleman, dressed in fine robes with glittering bands and rings on his hands. His smile was not hindered in the slightest by the perfect scruff of a dark beard at his chin. Under his silk cap was similarly dark, long hair. He seemed he could be no more than barely forty by his warm face, but the wise wrinkles around his eyes begged to differ. They were much deeper and much much darker.

“This is Master Doctor Jocham Fausten,” Dandelion said with a wide grin as they approached. “A great mind of history, philosophy, astronomy, and just about any other respectable topic. An absolute _glutton_ for academia! I guarantee, Geralt, you will not find a wiser, more fascinating man to converse with.”

Fausten grinned as his peer’s praise, pausing the lively discussion to turn and hug the bard in a warm and tight embrace. “Nor, sir, will you find a greater poet and musician than that which stands before you,” he laughed. His eyes found Geralt’s and only faltered a moment as quick realization dawned. It did not, however, draw away the man’s affection. “But I imagine you’d already know as such, being the subject of more than one of his ballads. You must be the great Geralt of Rivia!”

“I am, sir,” Geralt nodded and shook the warm, firm grasp of the professor. He felt his medallion tremor softly at the touch, curious. He dismissed it, however. Professor Fausten would not be the first to have some such magical item on his person.

Something did itch in the back of his mind, however. Fausten... did he know that name?

“Fascinating to meet you, sir!” He turned to Dandelion. “Will he be joining us tonight for supper?”

“Tragically he will not,” Dandelion sighed. “Though it is not for lack of trying. He has _business_ nearby. Simply came for a visit.” 

“Oh?” Fausten looked to Geralt. His smile did not quite reach as far this time, with some small prick of fear in his dark eyes. “What business would that be? Should we be concerned...?”

“No,” Geralt said. “Nothing the Academy should fear. It’s a matter more than a few towns away. Some men have had their heads turned to animals, or so I hear.” He gave a great shrug, dismissive of whatever transformative power. “No doubt one of them pissed off a mage or some such thing. But no real danger, as far as I’ve heard.”

“Ah. Good. Good!” Fausten’s smile seemed to grow, but it did not quite meet his eyes... “Well, allow me to speak for your charming companion a moment and say that when your business is done, please do come back! I’m sure there’s much to learn from such a man as you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Geralt chuckled, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Fausten waved his hand. “Nonsense! There’s _always_ something to be learned from every person.” He started the phrase with his eye to Geralt but ended it to his following students. They nodded and smiled, acknowledging they understood the lesson being imparted. Fausten, satisfied, turned back to Geralt. “Even if that something is simply that said person is an uninteresting bastard—which I sincerely doubt applies to you. If our beloved Dandelion has claimed you as a muse, there is much to be known. But! I must away, gentlemen.” He rested a hand on his chest and gave a small bow. Geralt simply nodded politely and watched the man turn and leave, calling, “Come, my blooming scholars!” His small pack of students indeed followed, some muttering farewells and offering bows to the Bard and the Witcher.

“Well,” Geralt hummed. “He seems interesting.”

“Indeed! I think he’s perhaps _the_ most universally adored man I’ve ever met,” Dandelion said, watching the man retreat. “Even when he utterly _destroys_ your argument in front of a crowd, everyone leaves feeling both amicable and enlightened! I’m rather lucky our offices share a wall. He’s one of _very_ few numbers that I delight in seeing every morning.” The bard paused then and leaned close, his voice—for once in his life—hushed. “And you wouldn’t believe half the rumors that go around about him.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Geralt chuckled, eyeing Dandelion. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyways.”

Dandelion huffed, pretending to be unamused, but went on regardless. “Well, they range from outlandish to simply strange—I’ll let you take your pick.”

“I don’t give a damn about rumors, Dandelion. Unless you think any of them are actually worth any merit, don’t bother repeating them to me.” 

“Fair enough,” the bard huffed as they began to walk again. “What I _do_ know is he’s an almost painfully learned man. Seems to be an expert in everything intellectual. He’s mostly known for his incredible advances in _medical_ fields. Developed some grand tactics for fighting plagues and epidemics and the like many decades back. He has _something_ of a courtly reputation, and has regular correspondence with a _number_ of monarchs and noblemen!”

“He’s a charming scholar,” the Witcher shrugged. 

“Yes but it’s more than just that Geralt! Some of the stories I’ve heard about his time in court... they make him sound more like a _mage_ than a scholar! He once made _antlers_ grow out of a man’s head! Made a proper fool out of him to the court!”

The Witcher just hummed. “I take it this is one of the outlandish rumors then?”

“Not quite. The _really_ outlandish one is that the lord decided to take his revenge and cut off Fausten’s head!”

Geralt couldn’t help the scoff of a laugh that passed his lip. “Didn’t do a very good job of it if the man’s now a professor.”

“Well that’s the thing, Geralt! His cut off head spoke!! He placed it back on his neck and he was whole again! All that followed was screaming. No one’s seen the lord or his compatriots since!”

“You’re right,” the Witcher laughed. “That is absolutely outlandish—not to mention complete bullshit. No mage, no matter how powerful, can simply reattach a severed head—let alone their _own_ severed head! Tell me this: which court was this? What lord? Which family was he from?”

Now Dandelion hesitated. “I’ll admit, I have no real specifics.” 

“I should say you don’t. What a fucking understatement. All you have is some fantastic bullshit, I’ll give you that much. Pure fantasy. Though I know how much you love your wild fantasy. Perhaps you can make a song out of it.”

Dandelion hummed, a warm smile and a laugh coming to his face. “Perhaps I shall, Geralt. Perhaps I shall.” 

~

The second time he met Jachom Fausten was later that week. He learned many things about the man then, such as the sound of his laugh, what kind of alcohol the man prefered, that Fausten was ambidextrous, many many of the Master Doctor’s vivid opinions on numerous subjects of philosophy and theology—namely that he detested the minds of both, which perhaps should’ve been a greater clue than it was—as well as that he rather liked being around Fausten. 

But at no point did he learn the _truth_. 

He’d kept his promise of returning after his work to join, partake with, and enjoy the company of professors at Oxenfurt. He’d had no wish of it before—beyond Dandelion, of course—but with Fausten’s insistence, none of the faculty seemed to mind his presence as Master Dandelion’s guest.

It wasn’t until about the third time, a year or so after their initial meeting, that Geralt began to learn the truth of the man, though he did not know it.

He’d been looking for _Dandelion_ , dammit. But apparently finding one poet— _HIS_ poet—in the middle of this school was no small task. He’d been directed to the man’s office, figuring it was at least a good starting point. It was high enough that any window—and Dandelion _would have a window_ —would give Geralt a good view. As expected, the office was empty of any poets. The window also revealed nothing but a lovely view on this sunny day. The Witcher cursed and began to wander.

His ear picked up voices—two of them in a nearby office. He knew one to be Master Doctor Fausten, but the other he did not recognize. 

_Perhaps he’ll know_ , Geralt thought. _At the very least, he can smooth any inquiry to the other faculty. They trust_ him.

“You do your work so very well, my sweet creature,” came Fausten’s voice. It was so soft and so clearly intimate that Geralt hesitated before the door.

“I do as my master commands,” came the other voice—a man’s most distinctly; not the voice of a school boy, but yet not one so old as Fausten himself. He so clearly had a soft smile on his face that bled into all of his words. “If my actions do make thee proud, then take your pride for thyself, sir. For you are the creator of it.”

“And yet,” came Fausten’s reply, his grin so audible. “It is _you_ who are the instigator. What do I wield but your hand? You do my bidding to every inch of perfection. For all these years you’ve been so very faithful to me. I know it is your obligation—”

“ _My Fausten._ ” 

_Oh gods_ , Geralt thought. Were it not for the slow moving of his mutated blood, a flush might’ve burned so bright on his cheeks. He shouldn't be overhearing this. This was _far_ too intimate. He began to look around, wondering if he shouldn’t just find some other person to help him. This was not a conversation someone like him should’ve been hearing.

“It is my obligation,” the other man said. “But do not think it is not also my pleasure!”

Fausten chuckled. “You shall have your reward one day.”

“One day. But that is not for some time, dear Fausten—and more my master’s reward than my own.”

“Will he not reward you for it?”

“He will, in his way. But think not of it. Think of what thou wouldst have me do next.” 

_What fucking language is that_ , Geralt wondered. He’d have thought they were spouting poetry or reciting some old theater if Fausten’s own name didn’t come up so many times.

But this would go on and he’d never find Dandelion if he didn’t claw himself a break in their affections. Finally he dared to knock, two fingers gently rapping against the wood. “Master Fausten?”

Geralt was rather surprised that the man waited barely a second before saying “come in!” 

He was even more surprised to find there was only one person in the room.

Fausten was calmly writing at his desk, unbothered in the slightest. “Ye—Oh! Geralt! How lovely to see you again!” He watched Geralt calmly as the Witcher looked about a moment in confusion.

The brief tremor of his medallion was lost in the motion of entering the room...

“Eh... S-sorry sir. Thought I...” There was a small closet, but it wouldn’t fit an entire other person without making some noise or being wholly obvious. Fausten’s desk was essentially a lovely writing table with no large slats to hide a person. 

Strange. Very strange.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Master Dandelion,” the scholar wagered in an effort to guess Geralt’s thoughts. “Unless you have some academic mater for me? I’m afraid I don’t know much of monsters beyond simple legends, if this is on business.”

“No, sir,” Geralt answered. “You were right with your first guess. I can’t seem to find him.”

“Mm.” Fausten rose from his desk and gestured for Geralt to step out of the office. “With the turn of spring, I know he rather enjoys having his classes meet out in the gardens instead.” He closed the door of his office and locked it behind him before he began to lead the Witcher through the hall. “Are you in town for him or for business?”

“Him,” the Witcher answered. His eyes glanced over Fausten, curious and confused.

But the Master Doctor just smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it—although I wouldn’t mention it specifically. Last thing he needs is his pride being inflated.”

“Indeed,” the Witcher hummed. And normally he’d have left the conversation there or simply let Fausten take over—the man was certainly more than a little adept at filling the air, and Geralt usually preferred to give that honor to someone else—anyone else—or even no one at all and walk in silence! But... there was enough confusion in him to ask.

“What brought you to teach at Oxenfurt?”

The question brought him a flash of Fausten’s bright smile. “Oh, it seemed the smartest place to be. And I mean that in a very literal sense. I’ve always desired to learn everything I can. I myself was a student once. I rose in various ranks in many regards and always I came back to the quest of knowledge.” He chuckled as his smile broke into a grin. “Going back to school seemed wise. I certainly have gotten to engage with some of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever had the pleasure to in my entire life—and I’ve served in healers guilds and royal courts!”

Geralt nodded with a deep hum. “Dandelion mentioned some of that to me once. Says you helped stop the spread of plagues.”

Fausten nodded. “Indeed. My techniques have been well written and passed about the Continent.” 

“You’ve saved countless lives then. That’s no small thing.”

“Indeed. I’ve received many letters declaring me a hero to one city or another. It’s all very kind.” He said such a thing as if it were a mere trifle of an event—like some award from a village fair.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “But you’d prefer to grade papers and lecture than—”

“Than tend to corpses and cities trapped in quarantine? Yes. Most definitely. I think any sane man would. Perhaps that makes me heartless, but... I wasn’t made to be a healer. It’s enough to me that my knowledge was able to aid those who were. I felt my mind was needed elsewhere.”

Geralt huffed. “Like in royal courts?”

A sheepish grin came to Fausten’s face. “I’ll admit, that was more for pleasure than knowledge.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Oh, all over,” the man sighed almost wistfully. “I traveled a great deal! I was rather sought after for a while, which was very well to my liking. Of course, who among us does not delight in being admired? Oh don’t make that face, Witcher! Dandelion can be more than a touch overwhelming on a good day, even _you_ must admit the effect of his music.”

 _Must I?_ Geralt thought. But Fausten waved the words away.

“No matter. I was a guest of many courts for a number of years, but it soon became clear that _knowledge_ , as I desired it, wasn’t to be found in any of them. More than once I found my life in danger, which had previously not been much of a worry for me!”

“I can imagine,” Geralt hummed. He’d spent his fair share of time in and around royal courts. They were far more territories of bragging rights and shows of power than any kind of home of wisdom. He had no doubt there were bright spots amongst some of the royal families, but as a whole, Geralt saw it as far more of a web to get stuck in than a worthwhile place to remain. “For all the show and pageantry royals make of themselves, they can be far more cutthroat than—”

He was cut off by Fausten struggling to keep himself from laughing. He noticed the Witcher’s confusion and reached out an arm.

“I am so sorry, sir,” he laughed. “You... You reminded me of a very good, but unfortunately very long joke.” He grinned, folding his hands behind his back. “Cutthroat indeed...”

~

They met many times after that, but it was another year before any more truth dared reveal itself.

It revealed itself as truth was want to be revealed amongst men—with far too much alcohol.

Here were a great many Masters of Oxenfurt Academy, after the lovely feast to celebrate the end of the academic year. Those who wished to go beyond a polite celebration had gathered in Fausten’s chambers as all present had insisted that Fausten had the _best_ alcohol in all of Oxenfurt. Tomorrow—providing hangovers didn’t get the better of them first—Dandelion would head out with Geralt, but first. First they would celebrate.

Geralt sat back and watched these reputable scholars grow more and more like learned tavern patrons—completely sloshed out of their minds, but attempting debate and topics all the same. He only felt bad for Fausten’s manservant, Wagner. He was a kind, amicable man, and didn’t seem to mind the many masters ordering him about too much, but Geralt knew everyone had their limits. Wagner went back and forth, retrieving more food and drink as was required by the guests. He got in his good words here and there as he chose, having the blessed advantage of being purely sober as well as being the blessed angel that brought the ever devolving masters their drink.

With every glass the collegiates grew more and more feral. It was _quite_ amusing, especially as Dandelion was as much a part of things as the rest. The poet had teeth and claws whenever it so pleased him.

And right now it very _much_ pleased him. 

Geralt had never seen the man so furious as watching someone dare to challenge the bard’s knowledge of poetic versus metrical feet and their proper place in lyrical structure both historical and contemporary. Blessedly, the crowd managed to trick him into performing, which very quickly put him in a much better mood. He led the room in a number of delightful rousing songs and had them all cackling with stupid delight—the likes of which were not terribly common in such a place as the Academy. After a number of songs before waving away calls for “one more! One more!” and slumping with questionable grace into Geralt’s side.

“Thank you gentlemen, but I’m quite content!” This was greeted with a chorus of groans and “come on!”s but Dandelion wordlessly received them with a smile

“Fausten,” one professor called. “Fausten, you’ve entertained courts, you illustrious _bastard_! Come, show us some of your courtly talents!”

Fausten himself was not exactly sober and he beamed at the call of his name. He attempted to do the same as Dandelion and wave such calls away, but he soon found himself in the center of the crowd.

“What was his talent?” One man laughed. “Did he give lectures of philosophy to the great noble houses?”

“I did not,” Fausten laughed back. “Though with many of the great houses and most royal courts I did speak of such things.” A wide, gigly grin came to his face. “ _Certain_ houses took to it much more than others... More bricks in their _heads_ than their damn houses.” _That_ garnered quite a rowdy laugh from the gentlemen, but Fausten drew them back. “But no! My wit was but a portion of my charm in court.” He paused, holding his cup low before him. His grin took on a much more mischievous air as he spoke. “I have knowledge of certain conjurings and can do anything I so please.” This took the room in a different kind of laughter, scoffing at Fausten’s expense.

But Geralt remained quiet. Something in his... less than strictly sober mind told him to do so.

“Yes, yes!” Fausten cackled. “Absurd, you say! And yet, I’m sure you’ve heard my rumors. They follow me so. I have created impossible visions and made such things you could only imagine. And so I say, ask me for anything and I shall show it to you. An image, an item; whatever your minds can—”

“Start with more wine, ‘magician,’” a man near him heckled. “Weave your wonderful magics and fetch me—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Fausten had reached out his hand. In front of all there eyes, a large red bottle of est est appeared, Fausten’s fingers grasping it at the base. 

The room was suddenly quite silent. 

“Where did you have _that_ hidden?” someone breathed.

“Not hidden, gentlemen. I would not do you the insult of simple parlor tricks!”

“Wait,” Dandelion said, pushing himself to _rise_ from Geralt’s arm. “Wait a JUST a moment!! Let me see that bottle!! I _know_ est est. Let me see what’s _really_ in there, and I’ll tell you all the truth!” It was opened and handed to him. Dandelion gave Fausten a narrowed side glance that was completely negated by the grin at his face. But all of his expression was blown away as the man took a single sip and _hummed_. He stared at Fausten. 

“Gods be _damned_ !!” He squeaked. “That _is_ est est!! And a _damn_ good year! And the fucking _size_ of it! How in the _hell_ did you manage such a thing, Jocham?!”

Fausten slung an arm around Dandelion’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the man’s cheek. “My dear Dandelion, the answer is so very simple! I am a man who gets what he wants!!” He raised his hand in a cheer and those around him joined with drunken delight, like he was a warrior among soldiers, and not the drunken faculty of a school. “No barriers shall ever lay between me and that which I desire!” 

“Very well then, good Master Doctor Fausten, undefeated in all his loves!!” Dandelion, said with a bow after taking another swig of wine. “Go on! Unleash your desires upon us awaiting souls! But forgive me, sir, I feel the room is _spinning._ ” 

The crowd laughed and Dandelion slipped away, back by Geralt as Fausten turned to those present. “Please! Go on! Say what you want! Anything at all!!”

And so it began—the strange challenge to stump their colleague. They asked for jewels, specific rare books, personal items, _lost_ items. All things suddenly found themselves in the Master Doctor’s hands to be passed around and authenticated by the room.

It was all real, though the room seemed far too intoxicated to completely understand the impact of such things. These weren’t illusions. It was a simple enough spell for a mage to summon an item, but Fausten never said any spells or made any motion or did so much as wink. He conjured with incredible speed and such little care. But then there was more to Fausten's power. For he then began to delight his comrades by pointing a finger at one member or another. Suddenly they began to dance or sing. Some were frozen in place—every hair on their head caught in mid—motion. Fausten beamed and danced and drank with every bit of applause and affirmation of his ability.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed slightly from his place on the couch.

The others present slowly began to fade away to other subjects, fascinated but unquestioning their colleague’s talent. By now, Dandelion had soon fallen asleep. He was dozing rather peacefully on the Witcher’s arm too, despite the lingering hubub of Fausten’s great talent. Geralt quietly excused himself to put his bard to bed. It was a process he’d done before and gotten quite good at. But before he could settle himself down as well... his mind was not done with what he’d seen. As quiet as he could, as all party members were truly winding down, Geralt re-entered Fausten’s chambers. Wagner, the manservant, was cleaning what he could. Drunken scholars lay asleep in various places and positions, but the Witcher didn’t see the man himself...

“Can I help you, sir?” Wagner asked, surprisingly cheerful for the late hour.

“Has the Master Doctor gone to bed?”

“He’s in his room, sir,” the young man responded. “But I don’t think he’s asleep just yet... I’d knock first.”

Geralt grunted a general thanks to the man and stepped further in. His ears caught a noise from the bedroom and followed it, wondering what he’d find, silently wondering who else was still awake that Fausten would still be conversing with.

But as he came closer the answer revealed itself distinctly: the sound was crying; it was the unmistakable sound of sobs.

“Only a year _,_ ” he heard the man breathe. “Already so soon?”

Tentatively Geralt knocked before opening the door to the bedroom.

“Master Fausten?”

Fausten looked up, sitting on the edge of his bed. No lamp had been lit in the room, letting the moonlight filter in through the windows instead and casting a pale light that seemed to shrink the man who’d seemed so large and grand in the center of his peers. Here he was a third of himself, alone and in the dark.

His eyes looked up to Geralt, full of tears and such strange sorrow. The Witcher was struck silent a moment, unsure why he’d even opened the damn door.

“Are... you alright, sir?” Geralt asked. There was concern in him, but... something deeper as well. Something much colder.

But Fausten's eyes were dark, wet with tears as he looked over the Witcher before him. For a moment, the man seemed to be preparing to say something—to ask Geralt some difficult question sitting heavy on his chest. There was a glimmer of something like hope that flashed across his face...

And then it was gone. The man gave a bitter smile and nodded. 

“Thank you,” he managed. “But, leave me be. Please.”

With no idea of what else to do, Geralt did as he requested.

The next day, he and Dandelion were much delayed in leaving, given the bard’s headache that he would not _stop_ bemoaning about. Geralt had thought to try and see Fausten, but the man was gone.

“He’d left before I’d gotten up,” Wagner said. “He’s done this a time or two before. Never hear him come and go, but he leaves a note and his horse is gone from the stable.” He pointed to a piece of parchment on a side table. “All he says is ‘business elsewhere,’ which could mean politics or simply needing to pick up a rare book he ordered. Not sure where he’s going or when he’ll be back. It could be later today. It could be a week or a month—maybe even a few. I’m sorry, Master Witcher. I wish I had more for you, but my Master is a strange man and can be suddenly taken in whatever business draws his eyes or mind.”

“That I’ve noticed,” Geralt grunted. “I’ve... another question if you have the time to answer it.”

A wide smile split Wagner’s face. “This is about his magic, I take it.”

“A common question then?”

“Indeed,” the servant laughed. He held up his hands in some small surrender. “I promise I’m not helping him with his tricks! I’d have thought him a mage myself—and did when I first came to be his steward so many years ago! But he swears he’s studied no magic and I certainly haven’t seen him do so in my years with him. And yet, I’ve _also_ seen him do some of the most incredible things! I have asked him more than a few times to show me, but he simply gives me books and tells me ‘all things worth knowing are there, my good man.’ All men, to Fausten, are his potential students.” Wagner shook his head with a warm smile at the memory. His eyes looked back to the Witcher before him. “Whatever his secret, he’s not told it to me.”

Geralt had nodded and left. He’d attempted to ask what others from the night before he could manage to find about the man’s conjuring, but all he got from them was remembered laughter and delight. Many expressed having heard rumors of such things before—Fausten creating images of ancient heroes and beauties from myth—but none had ever _seen_ him do such things. He’d never mentioned doing or studying any kind of magic. Similarly, none of them thought much of it—disregarding it as a simple, but very good, party trick.

The Witcher was curious. But with the man gone and no one to speak of it with, the matter fell away. Soon he and Dandelion were off on their own journey and Master Doctor Fausten moved to the back of his mind.

~

Geralt would only see him two more times after that. The first of the two began much like any other—Geralt came to visit Dandelion at the Academy while on the road. The Faculty had long since... not approved of, but gave up dissuading Dandelion in his choice of accompaniment. They’d been walking through the garden, catching up, when Geralt noticed the man.

In the shade of the Academy, Fausten was seated in a dark wood chair with lovely red cushions. In his hands was a book he was reading with no small bit of distress written on his furrowed brow. It had been a little more than half a year since Geralt had seen the man—left him crying alone in that dark room. The scholar didn’t look much improved from that night either—still so small, even in the daylight with his glittering rings and bands. His grand coat simply looked to be swallowing him. A silver topped cane leaned against the chair, one Geralt was _certain_ he’d never seen before.

“Is... Fausten alright?” he asked. 

“Hm?” The bard looked up to see the scholar whose eyes saw nothing but the book in front of him. “Oh. Yes, well... He’s been rather strange this entire year, I’ll be honest.” Dandelion gave a small sigh, casting a despondent glance toward his friend before looking away. For a moment, Geralt wondered if the two men were fighting, but it wasn’t like either of them to be at odds. And yet. Dandelion barely spared him a glance. They continued to walk, not even raising a hand to call to the man.

“I don’t recall him having a cane,” Geralt muttered.

“I think he hurt his leg some time last summer. Not that he’s told _me_ as such,” Dandelion said dismissively. “He’s been using the cane all year. Seems he gets around fine, though he isn't partaking in much of anything with anyone! He spends most of his time on his own, locked in his office or his rooms. Far more prone to staring out of windows and talking to himself. Might be going senile in his old age, I suppose.”

“He’s barely ten years your senior, Dandelion. _I’m_ older than him,” Geralt scoffed.

“And you talk to your horse, Geralt. People do strange things to cope!” The Witcher huffed, but Dandelion just shrugged. “No one’s quite sure why the change, but he’s been getting things done all the same, so no one’s making much of a fuss. I’ve _tried_ to talk to him about it; ask if something’s wrong, since we _share a bloody wall_. He simply asks me why I ask! ‘You’ve been acting different,’ I say, and he laughs and says ‘is it not the nature of a man to change as he grows?’ To which I say _piss off_! If he has something he’d like to say, he could say it, rather than act like I’m some fucking stranger!”

Geralt nodded, but. Wished he had something to say as they walked away. Fausten was a friend and his distance clearly bothered the bard, but what could be done about that? Dandelion made no move to linger. He led on and Fausten disappeared from their sight. 

“My guess,” the bard whispered, poorly, “his lover is going to leave him.” Geralt scoffed, but Dandelion held up a finger and would _not_ be dissuaded. “Oh hush, you, great killer of monsters! You forget— _I_ know people. I certainly know _this_ person after all these years. And! I think it might be a _student._ One of the older ones, mind you, but still! Every so often, when I leave my window open, I can overhear them in his office and they are _painfully_ affectionate. They keep talking about their time together ending—or rather, Fausten will bring up the subject and his beloved other will insist on some other topic. It is most _disgustingly_ romantic.”

Geralt smirked. “I take it you already have a few stanzas drafted.”

Dandelion paused, posturing with a small, smug smile. “Perhaps. But I’ll be _damned_ if he finds out about it!”

_Damned indeed._

~

The last time was far from normal. It began swinging between terror and luck. It was sheer luck that Geralt had been around to receive the message sent to him from Dandelion, terror when he read it and understood what was being asked, and even _more_ luck that he was close enough to arrive in time to be of any use.

He arrived in the morning and hurried himself to Dandelion’s office. For once, the bard was there and Geralt didn’t need to tear about the entire academy to discover him. He was in _no_ mood to play about. Not after the bard’s letter.

“This had not better be a joke, Dandelion,” He growled.

“It’s not,” the man replied, and it wasn’t a lie. Gone was the jingling animation that usually came with every step, word, and motion of the Bard. This was grave. This was dire. This was serious.

“Where is Fausten?”

“In his chambers.” And they were already off, Dandelion filling in what he could as they went. “He told everyone he was sick and that he didn’t wish to be bothered—even dismissed poor Wagner!” 

“What did his students have to say? The ones who hired me?”

“They _distinctly_ said demons,” the bard said. “And they weren’t kidding—if it’s a prank, then they are _very_ good actors and horrific bastards. But they seemed truly concerned. They showed me the rings and bracelets. Apparently, they were in his chambers on the last day of classes and he just. Gave them his adornments and promptly followed it with a very heartfelt and tearful speech. Wished each one a farewell! One boy said it sounded like he was speaking from his deathbed.”

“He very well could be, if demons are involved...”

“Yes, well a few of the students, reasonably concerned, asked the man what was wrong. They said Fausten laughed a most _bitter_ laugh and said soon he would lose his soul and that demons would take him away. I thought he might just be drunk or delirious, but they said he was perfectly sober. He told them to leave and to... Well, to pray for him, if they’d like.”

“He’ll need more than prayer for this,” Geralt growled.

“I figured as much—and so did they! Which is why they came to me to hire _you!_ They’re hoping you _can_ do more. They’re asking you to save their teacher!”

 _If he can even_ be _saved_ , Geralt thought. But what he said was, “First I need to see him.” 

Soon, they came to the man’s doors. Dandelion knocked, calling inside, but no sound or movement came forth. Dandelion tried again, that brilliant look of worry locked in his face.

“Stand back,” Geralt growled. And with one swift kick, the door swung in.

Fausten stood from where he’d been seated, his face pale and startled—though given the rest of him, Geralt could assume only the latter half was because of them.

“Geralt, Dandelion, I—”

“Tell me _everything_ ,” Geralt seethed, “and tell me now, or so help me, Jocham, I will beat you where you stand.”

No doubt the Witcher would barely have to _blow_ and the good Master Doctor would collapse. His dark eyes, usually bright with a scholar’s delight, were sunk deep, rounded by dark bags that denounced just how little this man had slept. His face, while wearing the well worn lines of joy and laughter, was pulled only in such firm grief and sorrow. His hand clenched so tight to his silver-topped cane his knuckles were white as a sheet, trembling in his grasp. He himself was worn thin, like some wasting disease had taken him.

In a way, it had. Only he’d invited this particular disease. And now it was claiming him.

Fausten opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, his eyes began to water, threatening to say what the man himself could not...

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, meeting the scholar’s dark gaze. “Did you make a deal with a demon?”

The man closed his mouth. Tears began to fall from his eyes.

It was all he could do to nod in answer to the Witcher’s question. His legs gave out and he sank back into the chair below him.

“ _Yes_ ,” He breathed, his face buried in his hands. “Gods be _damned_ , I did...”

 _Gods be damned_ , Geralt scoffed in his mind. _No, Fausten. You’re the one who’s damned_.

~

“I can’t believe it,” the bard breathed. “You signed _your soul_ away for such a pact?!”

The scholar tearfully nodded. He’d laid it all plain for them, spreading wide the story of his search for knowledge—his unending need to know _more_ ; to know _all things_! It had led him to forgo the houses of philosophy and theology, of medicine and science, and turn to an altogether new book to attain everything he sought. Through the banned art of Goetia, Fausten had summoned a demon and the two had made a pact. He showed them the single, red line on his ghostly pale arm where he’d been cut with his demon’s blade to sign his name in his blood and bound himself to the most brutal contract. For Twenty Four years, he wielded a demon’s magic to do as he pleased, gifted all power he desired, knowing all he wished, and being beholden to no one for it.

Not until now, at least. This day was his last day. When the toll of midnight came, his soul belonged to the demon’s true master.

“So it’s all true,” Dandelion said. “All those rumors about you—the man you cursed with antlers! Who cut off your head and—”

“Don’t be _daft_ , Dandelion,” Geralt scoffed.

“No,” Fausten said, his voice somewhere between amused and ashamed. “He’s correct. I have done such things and so _so_ much more—though this one is perhaps the most notable. I was in the royal court of Temeria. Someone challenged me to use my power and summon up Saint Gregory. One young lord, the son of Count de Meribor, I believe... He said there was no way a man of my skills could do such a thing—If I could summon up Saint Gregory, he said he’d grow antlers. So I did as I promised. Through my power, I summoned Saint Gregory and our young lord began to grow antlers through his hat. The Court laughed. I offered to conjure hounds to chase him into the woods, but the king told me to undo the antlers and let the matter pass. The man was embarrassed and plotted to kill me—him and his two compatriots. They did as you say and cut off my head, but I was not yet to die as my twenty four years were not finished. So I lived. I placed my head back upon my shoulders and I...” He shuddered a breath, said with such remembered anger. For a moment, he was some other man Geralt had never met—one who was simply terrifying.

“I unleashed such a wrath upon them...” And then his face broke and he suddenly began to laugh. “Perhaps I shall meet them when I’m taken! Perhaps they will be my tormentors! That should be an appropriate torture, don’t you think?”

“Don’t speak like that,” Dandelion insisted. “Geralt is here! We’re going to fight this demon for you and free your soul from him!”

Fausten’s eyes glanced between the two of them, pure fear in his eyes. “No! No, please, don’t. You cannot do such a thing!!”

“We’re not going to let it take you away! Tell him Geralt!” 

But Geralt said nothing.

Dandelion looked to him rather expectantly, awaiting any kind of word or assertion. “Geralt. We’re _not_ going to let a demon take his _soul_!” 

“There might not be much we can do for him, Dandelion,” the Witcher said, finally. “A contract like this is binding. It’s absolute. It’s literally written in his blood. There’s not—”

Dandelion straightened up. His usually lovely blue eyes were absolutely burning. “Geralt!! This man is our _friend!_ We have to _help_ him!”

Fausten reached out a hand. It was pale and far thinner and weaker than Dandelion ever remembered it being, but it clasped the bard’s with all the strength it could manage. “Please, Dandelion... Your friendship to me has been a blessing. And even now, your love is so very warm to my cold self, but... please, don’t trouble yourself on my behalf. For most of this past year, since I learned the date of my end, I have been searching for something; some way out. But in all my knowledge and study I have found nothing.” He squeezed Dandelion’s hand. “Your intention is kind, but... I signed my name. I looked into his eyes and I made my vows.” He paused a moment, lingering on some dark memory he could not share. Instead, he shook his head. “I knew what I was doing. _I_ sought it out. It is no one's fault but my own. It would only be pure foolishness to deny it all now, in my last hours.”

The bard squeezed back, clasping the man’s hand in both of his. “Fausten, you cannot give up so _easily_ ! I simply won’t let you! Do you hear me?! I will not let you leave _all alone_ to that chilly third floor!! Who knows what unagreeable bastard they’ll put next to me if you go! Who’s going to bring whiskey to those _unbearable_ faculty meetings, eh?!” Fausten barked a laugh, but the humor registered far more as pain and sorrow on his face. Dandelion looked to Geralt. “Is there _anything_ we can do...?”

The Witcher met those bitter blue eyes, hesitant. “There are a few things we can _try_. But I don’t know if it will be enough.”

“Then we _try_ ,” The bard insisted. “We will _try_ , dammit! As long as there’s even a sliver of a chance!”

Fausten said nothing. He attempted a smile that looked to barely be much more than a grimace. Geralt’s own expression did not exactly speak of hope. But with Dandelion’s own fury leading the charge, things would be done. 

The true question would be if they helped or not, but they would certainly be _done_.

~

Fausten was seated in his chair—that lovely dark wood with its vivid red cushion—placed in the center of the room. In one hand he held his cane firmly clutched in white knuckles. His other was hanging loosely over the seat’s arm. All other furniture in the room had been pressed to the edges, leaving Fausten the solitary adornment of the space. All along the floor, Geralt had done his best to create a circle of protection around the scholar, one with three rings of increasing power. There was white paint and holy words and symbols, as well as salt spread on top of the outermost ring. He didn’t know what powers this demon had, but with the salt dried in the paint, they at least had a strong start against it. Dandelion silently stood next to Fausten inside the innermost circle, watching Geralt very carefully. 

The Witcher, after having drawn the grand circle of sigils, was pacing around in the second ring, holding the silver sword in hand. He still didn’t know what exactly he would do when the demon showed up. Fausten hadn’t said a word since they’d begun. As time ticked on, the man seemed to fade more and more, his brow furrowing with such sorrow...

Geralt wasn’t sure which he’d prefer to deal with—the crying scholar or his looming demon.

It had gotten late. Dandelion had lit a few lanterns, as “lighting candles with the current circumstances is perhaps. A touch too ominous.” Time continued to tick on and they continued to wait. The closer the hour came, the more Fausten collapsed in on himself, silently tormented with anguish and silent, bitter tears.

Geralt felt it first—the tremor in his medallion.

“It’s coming,” he said, raising the silver sword. Dandelion held his breath, glancing to the windows and the ceiling. Fausten even paused his dismay to listen.

There was nothing—no shakes or grand earthquake; no great clouds of smoke or cracking pits of sulfur and ash. For a moment there was nothing but a thick, heavy silence that hung in the air above them.

And then.

“Fausten...”

Eyes whirled to the figure who stood before them. It was a man dressed in fine, red clothes; a brilliant deep red doublet with a bright scarlet cape about his shoulders. The only things he wore that weren’t red were his black leather boots with sparkling silver buttons. He was perhaps an inch taller than Dandelion, but no taller, and certainly no stronger. His handsome face held a short beard, the color of dark hay—same as the short hair parted to the side atop his head. There were no horns, fangs, or hooves; no ghastly horrors or unnerving shapes; only a man dressed in red with dark boots and darker eyes.

In another light—or perhaps in the absence of light—Geralt could’ve seen a way to fear him, but as he was before them now... he seemed so utterly normal; as well as silently and unequivocally sad behind his calm face.

“Fausten,” the man repeated. “It is time, dear master.”

“Mephestas,” the scholar croaked. “My sweet creature... is it already so? Have I no time left?”

“You have but _moments_ , my Fausten,” the scarlet man said, his brow furrowing in a bitterly concerned line. “Whatever charade thou hast built, I pray thee, do not squander these last seconds.”

“That voice,” Dandelion breathed, cocking his head as he regarded the red clad man. “I know your voice, sir!!”

Indeed, Geralt seemed to remember it too from somewhere—from some time back that he’d brushed away or forgotten. It was the voice speaking with such hushed intimacy. _This_ was the man Dandelion had thought to be Fausten’s lover. 

Geralt wasn’t entirely certain that _wasn’t_ the case.

Dandelion pointed a finger. “You are the one I’ve heard conversing with Fausten! The one that speaks so softly to him...”

“I am that, sir,” the demon said with a nod. “I am Mephestas, the demon given to Fausten to do his works. And I know thee as well. I have known you all these many years, as I have that ability which renders myself invisible to any eye save that which I chose to be known to.” His dark eyes met the yellow of Geralt’s. “Even to the eyes of a Witcher.”

“You know what I am then.”

“I do,” the demon nodded again, his voice soft and calm. “And I commend you for your work, sir. You’ve woven many strong borders to prevent my entrance... But they will not keep me. Rest assured, were I a wraith with rage to spare, these machinations wouldst render me useless. But you see I am not such a thing as that.” His eyes looked to Fausten, whose own were welling with tears at the mere sight of the beautiful red-clad man. “Your signs keep out that which is unwelcome.”

Mephestas reached out a foot. And crossed the first line of the circle.

“Fausten,” Geralt growled, raising his sword. “You _can’t_ let him in.”

“I cannot,” Fausten cried, his face wet with tears. His meager strength slammed the end of his cane on the floor. “ _Damn_ you Geralt! You... you cannot ask me to do such a thing! To keep away he... he who has been my greatest friend!!”

“If you let him in, Fausten, he will _take your soul._ ” 

“I _know_ ,” the man moaned. “Oh blasted day, I know!! I’ve always known! You mean well, Witcher. My students mean well to save me. But there is no saving!! What am I to do?! Sit in this chair, in this circle, and wait til I truly die and pray my debt will be forgiven by the heads of however many demons you slay for me?” The scholar shook his head and waved the white haired man and his silver sword away. “Oh, my dear friends... I have _been_ doomed.” His eyes met the dark eyes of the demon before him. Something of a bitter smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I have been doomed since I first saw your face...” 

Mephestas winced—or perhaps it had been a smile—his face drawing some of Fausten’s agony. His calm expression had turned so... _sorrowful_ . Geralt was about to charge forward and strike before the creature could wield its power, but seeing a _demon_ almost in _tears_... he stayed his hand.

“You wouldn’t let me speak of this day,” Fausten breathed.

The demon breathed a laugh, tempered by the sadness in his eyes. “You always spoke of it too soon. Far too soon.”

“Any time would be too soon,” Fausten said, a bitter smile on his face. “...You wished me to enjoy myself while I still had time left.”

Mephestas nodded. “I did. And I still do.”

“Am I still your master then?”

The demon’s smile split into a grin more sorrow than mirth. “You are my Fausten! Whatever thou shalt wish, thy heart shall have.”

“Anything I ask?”

The demon laughed, the sound broken and strange from his mouth. “Have I not promised you all power? Have I, for these twenty and four years, not done all thou couldst wish and more? We, who together have ridden on the backs of dragons, tormented corrupt zealots, and astounded halls of kings, have worked such magic. What loathsome thing would I be to abandon my master now when I am most needed?” Tears began to pool in the eyes of the red-dressed man. “Oh—but for these moments... What wilt thou ask of me, Master?! I beg you, call for me!”

Fausten raised his arm, his body shaking with sobs he could barely restrain. “Please, my sweet Mephestas. Come to me now.”

Mephestas met Geralt’s eyes a moment. And then crossed the second circle.

The Witcher did not move.

“Ask for me again,” Mephestas said, his dark eyes so very wet and unmoving from the pitiful man before him. “I am for thee, but thou must call once more. Call for me but one more time, my Fausten, and demand your favor from your most dutiful servant! Pray, what can I give thee?!”

“Comfort, my dearest,” Fausten cried. “Please, I beg of thee, Mephestas, come and give me comfort!!”

Mephestas did not look to the Witcher. The silver cane fell from the man’s hand as the demon crossed the final line of the circle and dashed into the arms of Fausten.

Geralt and Dandelion watched the most bitter of reunions in stunned silence. Mephestas knelt before the weak scholar, their arms finding the other with such desperate speed. The two held each other a moment, tears on both their faces as hands, trembling and shaking, grasped each other tight. Fausten shook with every sob and Mephestas held him, holding the face he knew so very well—the man he’d served for all these many years. It was like a glorious flower with such great and vicious thorns was blooming between them—beautiful in every way but sheer agony with every touch. With every lingering second in each other hands, their sorrow grew. Fausten became somehow paler in his red love’s hands. Together they shared bitter smiles until they could not bear to smile at all. Fausten’s face fell fully to grief and Mephestas’ gentle hand began wiping away the scholar’s pained tears.

“Oh, I am damned,” Fausten moaned. “Truly, I am.” Mephestas could only nod. Fausten dropped his head and rested it against that of his beloved demon. Their faces were so very close now, their noses near touching with every trembling breath. Fausten reached and with one hand he grasped the red sleeve of the demon, his knuckles so very white. The other hand was rested so gently on the side of the demon’s face, cradling the soft skin with such delicate care. “Damn you, Mephestas,” Fausten breathed. “Oh _damn_ you! This is your doing. Were it not for you, I’d have paradise... You’ve taken the heavens from me. You’ve trapped me with your works...!”

“Yes,” The demon nodded, holding the scholar’s hand to his cheek where the man had placed it. “Yes, It’s _all_ my doing, my Fausten! The fault is mine. I beguiled thee and coerced thee with wonders and power. It is by my power you fall... Place the blame on my head, beloved Fausten... And come now.”

Fausten could not breath then and was so wracked with sobs his eyes fell shut. Mephestas took the man’s tear stained face in his hands and so softly pulled him to his lips. There they stayed, together for what both knew would be their finale. It was as sweet and tragic a kiss as the Witcher and the bard had ever seen. It was both the greatest declaration of love and the deepest pained apology. With every second it lingered, their eternal goodbye went on, heartfelt and bitterly tearful and so very very _gentle._

When they parted, Fausten was pale and still. His body, with no more warmth in it, fell limp, leaning forward toward the man he’d clung to in his last moments. His spirit had left him—properly claimed by the red demon who now dared to just... hold tight to him for one moment more. 

With a final shuddering breath, Mephestas placed his last, bitter kiss on his love’s forehead, like a prayer at the statue of a saint who could no longer hear him. The deed was done. The contracted was completed. Carefully, Mephestas leaned Fausten back into his chair, closed his beloved’s eyes, and rose to his feet.

He looked to Geralt, wet tracks of tears still on his face, even as his expression hardened. “If you bury him in any kind of holy ground, the body will rise again.”

The Witcher only nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

Mephestas nodded in return. The room was heavy with tense silence. Dandelion had retreated further back, but still did not leave the circle. Fear and confusion still filled his numb limbs. Geralt’s eyes were unmoving and the demon made no moves to get away or wield his power. He simply met the man’s yellow gaze.

“...You will dispatch me then?”

Geralt raised the silver sword in his hand. “You are a demon, sir. I’ve allowed you all that I’m willing to allow for a creature such as yourself.”

Again, Mephestas nodded. His hands folded in front of him and he took a deep breath.

“I am ready for you, sir.”

Geralt took a step. It took one swing of his sword and the scarlet-clad man dissolved in a cloud of smoke.

~

The faculty of Oxenfurt were deeply saddened to find beloved Master Doctor Jocham Fausten had passed in the night. News soon spread how his heart had unexpectedly given out. The good Master Doctor’s will was found in his office, placed perfectly in the center of the desk, and had been followed perfectly to its completion. His fortune was divided—a number of parts left for many of his students, organizations, and institutions, as well as a great sum and control over his estate set aside for Wagner. The man, who’d been not at all surprised but deeply saddened at his master’s death, donated most of the possessions his master had brought to the Academy, saving certain ones aside to bring back to Fausten’s grand, but now empty home. Among these he kept Fausten’s chair with its dark wood and red cushion, and the writing desk. (He attempted to keep Fausten’s great horse, but the beast had seemingly vanished with only a bale of hay left in its stall). Whatever meager library Fausten had assembled in his time was gifted to the Academy in the good Master Doctor’s memory, along with a monetary donation to be used for the furtherment of knowledge and wisdom for the Continent’s young people.

By Fausten’s own request, he was not buried, but burned, along with specific books that were not to be opened. It was a curious detail, but it was followed by Wagner nonetheless. He had long grown used to his Master’s strange requests. This was but another one—the final one.

A kind memorial was held. Many students shared their memories of their beloved teacher, as well as colleagues, and certain delegates from many royal courts. Wagner, holding his master’s beautiful silver topped cane, stood next to Dandelion. The two men shared silent tears and silent looks during the ceremony. For once, the bard had no words to say, but did sing a somber ballad in loving memory of his colleague and friend.

Neither Dandelion nor Geralt told a soul of what had happened. Geralt—with some help—scrubbed away enough of the paint on the floor that no one would know what had happened there. Geralt took it in stride, as he always did. What else could he do? It was not his story to tell—nor would he want a tale of how he’d failed to save a doomed man to be spread.

Dandelion, however, could think of nothing else. He took his love and grief for his friend and did the only thing a poet could do. He wove together the greatest tale he could afford such a man; A tale of a brilliant scholar consumed by his desire for knowledge who fell prey to a foolish pact that gave him many great powers and blessings, but would inevitably claim him. Many saw it as simply a morality tale; the dangers of playing with such powerful and evil forces, which strangely garnered him favor with those who had previously found his work utterly _lacking_ in morals. But a few clever souls saw the truth. It was all the others had said, certainly, but there was also more.

They saw the beautiful and tragic love between a foolish, brilliant man and the equally foolish demon who had followed him to the very end.


End file.
